


To Be a Stranger Still

by LadyHaukyn



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baby Elves, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Nerdanel's Rowdy Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28094622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHaukyn/pseuds/LadyHaukyn
Summary: Even in the most intimate of First Age texts, the tired hue of Finarfin's voice has a tendency to get washed from the narrative. And how couldn't it? Especially when your brothers are thrice-Valar-damned madmen!
Kudos: 22





	To Be a Stranger Still

**Author's Note:**

> Finarfin's internal monologue on a day-to-day basis. I hesitate to call this fluff. I may have made the ugliest snorting noise when I tagged this with "Dysfunctional Family."

Finarfin spent his days in Tirion upon Túna to greater capacity as a page than a prince, particularly among family that never spoke with one another, but somehow spoke enough on their own for him to get by without speaking himself. Complaints of _Ingoldo, please_ and _apprise thy brothers_ and _Olwë wishes_ and _my golden child_ and _Ingoldo, wouldst thou?_ racked up over the years like an ill composed comedy, and well he played the part of the unresting, unwitting hero, or so he was inclined to think.

“It was one of Findekáno’s first fine pieces, but he wishes it sees the hands of Maitimo on his fiftieth naming day.” Fingolfin’s voice might have sounded sour to him, if it were not for that accursed stoic smile. “Canst thou manage, Ingoldo?”

And there it was.

“Yes, Aracáno,” said Finarfin, knowing it would be at least a month before he could visit, given Olwë’s gracious patience for short-lived guests despite their marital status to his only daughter. He could manage.

“Thou art kindly as always, _hánonya_ ,” and Fingolfin pressed into his palm a fine silver necklace cradling a cloudy moonstone, which he thought with a sinking heart would look laughable about the tall, gangly frame of Maedhros, not that he would say it aloud, even though it was entirely likely that Fingolfin thought the same.

Finarfin could never deny how much he was loathe to enter the palaces of his brother — _half-brother_ , insisted some nagging voice in the back of his mind that sounded a lot like Fëanáro — not to mention the forges. Much too hot, too dark, too narrow and dense. The structures above, while gilded beyond compare, were claustrophobic to him, and the halls maze-like beyond the reach of the audience chamber. When he leaned against the walls to keep his balance as he ascended the stairs to reach the nooks where Fëanor preferred to nest his brood, the walls leaned into his embrace. No, he did not do well here at all.

Nerdanel received him personally. Her complexion seemed ruddier than usual, which Finarfin silently ascribed to the usual clamor of the household — a black and golden head blurred down the hallway beyond the mosaic-studded vestibule, squalling about one thing or another that he was not quite able to catch — and that she was again at the stewardship of another newborn, and he understood Carnistir’s begetting to be terribly difficult for her, if he had heard correctly from Anarië. She looked awful.

“You look well, my lady. What a stalwart kind you are!” he ended up saying, bowed his head in regard, and followed her to the comfort of her study.

As they spoke over cakes and wine, it occurred to Finarfin that he had yet to admit to Eärwen that he was deathly afraid of ever raising a child. Fëanor, apparently, had no such fear. Carnistir would be their fourth child, which he thought was a bit excessive, not that he would say it aloud, especially if it made them happy in the end.

For dear Fëanor, more joyful days led to less intolerable weeks, and everything was a little quieter for all.

From the vague direction of Fëanor’s bedchambers, Finarfin heard the twang of a snapped harp string followed by maliciously petulant laughter. Nerdanel did not seem to notice. He sipped quietly at his wine.

Their conversation continued, sustained by the exchange of Fingon’s gift, Nerdanel’s feverish occupation with her latest sculpture in progress, which he thought looked a tad tawdry and mostly abstract, not that he would say it aloud, and talk of young Celegorm’s amusingly horrendous artistic ability before she let slip that it had been days since his brother — _half-brother_ , he thought sternly — was last seen among his own halls. He sighed.

“I shall find him, my dear. Thou needest worry not.”

And out finding he went.

The crown prince was eventually found in his mother’s cenotaph, among the gardens their father had dedicated to Estë, which Finarfin thought an astute choice. He wandered through rows of silver and periwinkle blossoms. Fëanor slept at the foot of Míriel’s shade, heavy apron and gloves discarded in an unattended corner, pale eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, a foot in the placid pool of water that surrounded the statue. Finarfin approached, cautiously.

If the forefinger of Fëanor’s right hand twitched, Finarfin missed it.

“Ingoldo,” Fëanor commanded, and Finarfin jumped slightly. He looked down on the shape of his brother — _half-brother_ , he reminded himself — still prone, but whirring with excitement. “Hast thou ever considered the utility of starlight upon a lantern’s wick?”

“Never, Fëanáro,” said Finarfin, thoughtlessly, sitting down beside him with a sniff. “Do continue.”


End file.
